


Deamone Manor

by lousmoonshine



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Anal Sex, Betrayal, Bisexual Character, Death, Detective, Fluff, Heavy Themes, Horror, M/M, Murder Mystery, Psychological Thriller, Shower Sex, Smut, Thriller, Violence, Won't be too explicit tho, alternative ending, implications of prostitution, mafia, try to keep it as suble as possible
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-17
Updated: 2020-07-17
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:15:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,545
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25322242
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lousmoonshine/pseuds/lousmoonshine
Summary: On April 12th, eight letters were sent out from a remote location on Tettersville, England. The letters included specific instructions for the receivers demanding to meet a mysterious sounding Mr. Deamone on his manor to play a problem solving game, in which the big prize was the survival of the winner.The Clue AU, in which a very curious and bubbly Louis and a mysterious and determined Harry partner up to play detective and try to figure out who their mystery host is on a manor full of secrets.Or, the one where everyone is guilty.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 4
Kudos: 12





	1. PREVIEW

**Author's Note:**

> Warning: this works contains depictions of violence and death, and slight implications of prostitution, medical negligence, trafficking and drug cartels. If you are uncomfortable with any of this topics I suggest you skip the story entirely. The concept around it is based on the 1985 movie Clue and Agatha Christie's book, And Then There Were None.

**COMING SOON**

An old fashioned, lovely elderly woman.

A conceited, award-winning cardiothoracic surgeon.

A clueless journalist with a fetish for mysteries.

A divorced single father who loves to play detective.

A woman in politics, with not so many fans.

A powerful man whose power relies in money and dirty knowledge.

A man who is a mystery as big as the Bermuda Triangle and the Mandela Effect combined.

And a nosy female escort who uses her clients for more than just money.

_They all have one thing in common, Mr. Deamone wants them all dead._


	2. PART ONE

**VICTIMOLOGY**

It came as anything else but a surprise to the eight special guests the eeriness of the Manor. Much like the letters that were sent to them, the rusty looking, cold stones that made up the walls made every single one of them reconsider succumbing to the demands of the written paper they have each received a week prior, no matter the threats that were written at the end of the paper, promising how the recipients' loved ones would suffer if they failed to follow commands.

The first evening was meticulously planned by Mr. Deamone. Being a perfectionist himself, he left specific instructions for each of the ten people who were to attend dinner–including Isabella and Jennings, Deamone's maid and butler.

The guests arrived one by one. Isabella, in her not so modest uniform, was waiting to greet them and show them the room in which they were staying, while Jennings followed behind carrying their luggage to each corresponding room, which was different for every guest. Some were more modest, some were extravagant. Each had their very own Jacuzzi and view of the great maze and fountain that stole the protagonism on Deamone's gardens.

The guests were instructed to immediately head to the dining room after Isabella showed them their way to their room, and were told not to move from there until the very last guest arrived. From the first limousine that showed up to the Manor, an elderly woman got out. She had a frown on her crinkly lips; her very neatly made nails, expensive looking jewelry and fur coat indicated a very lavish lifestyle. But what caught the attention of most was that despite her hardened outer appearance, her inner self resembled more of a sweet grandmother than she looked like. She took the first seat on the side of the table, the one that read Mrs. Holly Hallewell, and delicately placed the napkin on her lap, preparing herself to patiently await for the others to arrive.

The same limousine then arrived from a quick ride back to the private hangar, and it seemed the passenger was rather anxious to get out of the car, as he kicked the door open before the driver had even stopped the engine. His black tie was hanging loose around his disheveled collar, the black blazer of his suit carelessly thrown over his shoulder. It was noticeable for miles that he would rather be anywhere else than in the middle of nowhere where there were no bars he could sink into a drink in. He stood still right before climbing up the stairs that led to the Manor. His head was raised, his eyes exploring every inch of the faded tiles before him. The doctor, Dr. Mark Addington, took a long sip from the hip flask he carried on him like it was an oxygen tank and made his way into the Manor.

The next special guest was not someone Mr. Deamone would have ever thought to be a part of his black list. Young, smart, handsome, full of life. Louis Tomlinson's smile would surely light up each room of the dark house and bring hope to the frightened guests. He had no idea what to expect from this trip, nor why he had received a letter containing mainly threats to his persona and his family. _This is probably a joke_ , he thought. _Or my friends signed me up for a role playing retreat for my birthday. They know how much I love mysteries. Yeah, that's probably it._

Just after Louis exited his room to join the other two guests in the dining room, another one of the victims -as Mr. Deamone liked to call them- made it to the Manor. Killer looks, silk hair, melting eyes and panty-dropping smile on, single father and former husband Harry Styles dragged his heavy suitcases up the stairs as Louis was heading down, crossing each other on the master stairs. A quick nod was all they exchanged. Harry clearly was not yet used to living on his own. His ex wife would have told him to cut down in half the amount of clothing he was packing and would have helped him fold and organize everything. Life was easier for him when she was around. But on his mind, she was most likely the reason he was called to this horrific house in the middle of nowhere. What has she done now?

The fifth guest to arrive, Congresswoman Stacy Sullivan, was not so keen on seeing others waiting for her at the dinner table. She knew deep down that she was not the only one receiving these threatening letters, but still somehow expected less company on this so-called trip. She only came because work has been really stressful for her lately, and she found it as an excuse to get away from the city and clear her mind. She did not come for the threats, no. As she was never married nor with child, and the single mother who raised her was long gone, she did not feel the need to worry about anyone but her, and her lonely private life was showcased in her outer appearance. Her clear disgust was explicitly shown as she sat down at the table with the others, not even bothering to introduce herself nor caring about getting to know who was sat next to her.

The last guests arrived just minutes apart from each other. The first, businessman and philanthropist Thatcher Barnes. He was a small, but powerful man. He was admired my many, feared by most. He was weak, and he used his weakness to his advantage, by overcoming it with the tremendous amount of power at his feet. After all, what really makes a man powerful is not the actual power itself, it is the ability to use said power to his advantage, and his advantage only, as a weapon.

The second was a bigger mystery than the Bermuda Triangle, the Mandela effect and Area 51 together. He only went by the name of 'Weatherford'. The falseness in his persona was well known by everyone. No one knew his real name, his real nationality, or his real face, as he has had facial surgeries to hide his identity. And the battle scars helped, too.

And finally, the last arrived. She was the incarnation of the phrase, ' _money can not buy class_ '. Her vulgar fortune was made by sticking her nose on her clients' private affairs after she was finished providing her services to them and using them for her own benefit. An expert in blackmail, Poppy Watson. Didn't surprise her at all when the tables had turned, and she was the one receiving threats. She could have always seen it coming.

After the eight guests were accommodated, Isabella stepped into the dining room. "Welcome all, to the beautiful town of Tettersville. Holly, Mark, Louis, Harry, Stacy, Thatcher, Weatherford and Poppy. We hope you have a pleasant stay and enjoy your time in our humble home. You may use it as you please for the time of your stay here. We have a beautiful garden, a piano room, a game room, a library, a ballroom, and many others. The only thing is, you cannot enter another guest's room. It is absolutely forbidden to do so. Every morning we will have breakfast together, and every night we will dine together. Mr. Deamone welcomes you, and he is sorry he was not able to attend tonight's dinner. But he left specific instructions for the evening. Dinner will be served now; our cook has prepared each one of your favorite meals. After the feast comes to an end, the games will start. _Bon appétit."_

Jennings, Deamone's butler, proceeded to place a plate in front of each one of the guests, each containing a different meal. Weatherford was served steak with a side on mashed potatoes, Stacy was served a simple salad, Holly's plate served salmon with caviar, and so on. They all looked at each other as the plates were served in front of them. Louis started to get anxious; he was not so certain now that her friends set this whole thing up as a birthday present, he hadn't told anyone how much he missed his grandma's family mac and cheese recipe, it even smelled the same. What other personal information did they know about him? The nightmares that kept him up at night as a child? Details about the depressive period he succumbed to when he was told about his father's death?

Louis, Harry and Thatcher seemed the most touched by their dishes. They all seemed very homemade, family recipes. Their faces portrayed many emotions, but the ones all eight guests shared was one; fear. The question they all asked themselves was evident in the air: _was the food poisoned?_ No one dared speak out loud, nor be the first to try their food. Until finally, with a voice as squeaky as an animated squirrel's, Poppy spoke.

"Someone is going to have to be the first to eat. We are not going to starve ourselves, are we?"

"We have no idea what's in here, they could have put anything in our food." Thatcher protested. Before anyone could agree with him, Stacy spoke up;

"This _Deamone_ person would not risk getting us all killed on his house, right? Our families, your families, will notice our absence. So I say we stop whining and just eat." Just after she finished speaking, the clinging of cutlery against a porcelain plate could be heard from a corner of the table. They all turned their heads to the direction of the sound, where they found Wheaterford already chewing on his steak.

"The food is fine." He muttered with a mouth full of food. "Eat."

Yet nobody ate. All seven pairs of eyes were locked on Weatherford as he chewed on his steak, waiting for him to fall dead to the floor. But he never did. Slowly, one by one, they began nibbling on their food.

After what seemed like an eternity of awkward stares, and silence in the air, Thatcher cleared his throat. He was always the first to casually speak, making small talks was his specialty. It was the way in which he studied his neighbors, his fellows, everyone he ever encountered. "Let's just kill the elephant in the room. I say it's the butler. It's _always_ the butler."

Ms. Holly scoffed. "Oh, please. You really think Jennings is going to blackmail us?"

"Jennings?" Mark chimed in. "So you know him then?"

"I don't. Unlike some people, I try to be nice to the staff so I introduced myself earlier to him."

"Sounds to me like you _do_ know him." Harry interfered. "I say someone in this room is the one behind all of this."

"So who are your guesses, pretty boy?" Poppy eyed him up and down, such a delicious view for her.

"I say the pseudonym Mr. Deamone is a fake name, maybe an anagram? But I say it is actually Ms. Deamone. A woman is blackmailing us."

It was Thatcher the one who scoffed now. "Oh, like a woman could pull all of this off."

There was an uproar from all the three ladies sitting at the table, clearly disgusted by his commentary.

"Excuse me?"

"Oh, hun. If you only knew what we are all capable of."

"Oh, so the butler can pull this off but a woman can't? You misogynistic piece of–"

" _Enough!"_ Weatherford exclaimed from the far end of the table, banging his palm against the wooden table. "I do not know any of you, and trust me, I don't intend to. But even though we are complete strangers, we need to trust each other. No, it's most likely not the butler. And no, it's probably not one of us either. We do not know what this man, or woman, wants from us, but we need to stick together and take them out before they try and do the same to us. They _want_ us to fight and turn our backs against each other, and _you_ are giving them exactly that. If you know of somebody who might want to hurt you, _say their name._ We need everybody's help if we want to find this person."

"I've had people threaten me during my campaign, but it does not make enough sense. I'm American. And most of you are British. So I don't think this has anything to do with politics." Stacy corroborated.

"I was married." Harry sighed, dragging his food around his plate with a fork. "My wife had... questionable friends. I do not know of her whereabouts, she abandoned me and our child, Silas, but I can't think of any reason why someone would send _me_ that letter. I'm guessing for revenge on her, but I really can't think of a person that would want to hurt me."

"Me neither." Louis continued. "I'm just a journalist. But I've never written something degrading someone else. Not the point to get blackmailed, at least. At first I thought this was a mystery solving retreat my friends signed me up for, but it makes me nauseous to think it's really not."

"I think I may agree with what..." Poppy narrowed her eyes, attempting to read a name card from across the table. "...Harry... said earlier. I think it's a woman. At least the people who would want to hurt me are women. I say we make a list of the people we think might want to hurt us. Anyone have a pen?" She wrote several names down on a napkin, waiting for somebody else to speak.

"I'm not proud of my past." Ms. Holly spoke with a trembling voice. "And I might have both women and men who would have wanted to hurt me for what I did. But that was a _long_ time ago. Most of them are already gone, unless their descendants want revenge on me. Could you please pass the pen?"

After Holly finished writing down all the names of her potential enemies, Thatcher motioned for the pen. He began writing on a paper napkin as well. "This list is going to be long. My businesses have affected many people over the years, as it has helped them too. But I'm afraid, I have enemies too."

"Unless the interns at the hospital I work at are pulling a tasteless prank on me, I have no one. On the contrary, I'm _saving_ lives. I'm a hero. I don't have enemies. I shouldn't even be here, I'm leaving in the morning." Mark stated, taking a big bite out of his food.

Out of the blue, all the power in the house suddenly went out. A red, eerie glow illuminated the room after a few seconds. No one said a single word, not even the calm breathing of their lungs could be heard, because they all held their breaths.

A screen then turned on, hanging on the wall. The sound of the bubbly TV static was all they could hear. But then the static stopped, and replacing it was a cheerful into of a cheap game show. _«The game is about to begin»_ could be read in flashing lights on the screen.

The letters were suddenly gone, and another figure appeared on the screen. They could not tell whether it was a man or a woman, white, black, asian, short, tall, _nothing_. The person was wearing a black hoodie, and a white mask was covering their face.

"Welcome, all." The person said, voice too distortioned but understandable. "I apologize for I could not make it to our first meeting. I hope you all enjoyed your dishes, and thank you all for attending. Well, you didn't have much choice, did you? I do not want to make this last too long, I want to cut straight to the fun part." Mr. Deamone cheered, clasping their hands together. "So now, I am going to read a completely made up scenario for you, my lovely guests. I want you to listen closely, and then I'll leave you to guess the answer. Good luck."

_**There was a man once, a very daring man. He was known for never losing anything in his life. He never lost his keys, never lost his wallet, and especially, never lost at his game. People would beg him for a chance to go up against him, thinking they could get lucky, poor fools. In his game, the two players sat down facing each other with a few other elements on the table. Two empty glasses of water, one jar full of water, two pills. The man who dares his victims always wins, tells the other person to pick the pill who does not have poison in it. The man will drink the other pill. The players each choose one pill, they fill their glasses with water, and both of them take the pills together. Every time, the man wins. And the victims fall dead to the floor within seconds. How?** _

The screen then turned black, and all of the lights in the room turned back on. Louis raised his hands to cover his mouth, staring soullessly to his full plate of food. He could not believe that just happened. Everything was appearing more and more real as the seconds passed by.

"I don't know what this psycopath wants from us, but I'm not going to give in." Mark stated. "I'm out of here." He got up abruptly, almost knocking his chair over. He walked to the door, turning the handle to open it, but it was impossible. "They locked us in. They fucking locked us in. What _is_ this madhouse?!" The doctor started to knock on the door senselessly, shouting for help.

"Stop." Weatherford interrupted him. "You're not going to get us anywhere by doing that. Pass over the lists." He motioned with his hands, Poppy delivered the notes to him and he scanned them one by one, catiously. "This is useless. No names match. This person has probably changed his or her identity multiple times, so we may know them as completely different people." He sighed, running his hands though his quiffed hair.

A deafening tick of a clock blasted through the speakers hidden somewhere in the fancy dining room, reminding the newcomers of the task assigned to them by Deamone himself. The sound was like a knife ripping through their eardrums, forcing them to instinctively cover their ears with their hands in order to stop them from hurting too much.

After endless seconds, the high pitched sound came to a stop, leaving the guests light headed.

"Fuck. What are we going to do?" Harry asked to no one in particular.

"We must play by his rules, if we want to ensure our safety we must do whatever this psycopath wants." Weatherford stated, leaning his upper body on the table with his hands. "Does anyone remember exactly what the task was?"

"In short, it was about this guy who dared people to choose between two pills, one poisoned and the other not, and then he'd take the other one. But every time his oponents were poisoned, and he was not." Poppy recalled.

"It's a trick question." Louis blurted. All eyes were suddenly turned on him, the little boy in the room, waiting for him to corroborate. "Well, we've all seen The Princess Bride, haven't we?" He received confused looks from Thatcher, Holly and Mark. "At least most of us. In the film, Westley pours poison in one of two goblets and asks Vizzini to choose the one with no poison in it. They both drink from the goblets but Vizzini dies. How did he make Vizzini choose the poisoned one? He didn't, Vizzini would have died either way, because both cups were poisoned. Westley had actually spent years building immunity to the poison."

Harry smiled. "There we go. We did it."

Stacy huffed. "You didn't do shit. We're still trapped in this room."

"What do you say the answer to this riddle is, then?" Weatherford asked Stacy.

She crossed her arms over her chest and leaned back into her seat. "Well obviously I can't know for sure. I'm sure he poisoned his opponents in another way, but how?"

Poppy cleared her throat, and the attention was diverted to her. "I think yes, both were poisoned. But the man did not swallow his pill. Or somehow he switched the poisoned one he was supposed to take with a safe one, without the opponent noticing."

"Could be, but it's too easy. I don't buy it." Holly called. She tought for a while, her crinkled forehead was more prominent than usual as she sumerged into deep thought. "It has to be something else. He obviously manipulated his victims into the game, tricking them into thinking they could win, and them subconciously forced them to pick the poisoned one."

"You morons." Thatcher scoffed. "It's obvious, isn't it? I thought you all saw it, my bad for thinking you had actual brains. The poison was _in the glass_ , you idiots! Not in the water, not in the pills, in the freaking glass!"

Music started blaring out of the hidden speakers again. But this time, it was cheerful music, celebration music. Kind of circus like music. The doors leading out of the dining room were opened by an invisible force, inviting the guests to leave the room and go to their corresponding bedrooms to spend the night, to congratulate them for breaking the code.

But the real prize, they would face the following morning.

...

That first night, almost none of the visitors was able to bat an eye. They all locked themselves in their corresponding chambers right after dinner and went to bed quite early for a sleepless night.

Their sleep deprivation was showcased on their exhausted faces as they all headed downstairs for breakfast the following morning, after being forced awakened by alarms blaring at dawn. The sun had only begun to rise and the morning dew was still fresh as they all met at the dining room.

Harry was particularly tired that morning. It disgusted him seeing Thatcher's smiling face--he was the only one out of the eight who seemed to have rested well, probably because of his success at the previous night's game. In fact, Thatcher's reserved seat was the only one that had already been taken by a golden party hat. As the guests entered the room, they all froze in their spot as they noticed the hat, their hearts accelerating by the second. The young divorcee looked around the room to find the reason for his restlessness, until he found him. Louis.

He had been interested in the blue eyed journalist since they bumped on each other the previous afternoon after they both have first arrived at the manor, and that interest only peaked when he heard the midnight disturbance on the lad's room. He had been shuffling all night, pacing through his room and talking to himself, though all Harry could take in were undecipherable mutters.

After he served himself a small portion of the breakfast buffet, he sat down on the seat that had his name displayed on a cardboard sign. Just his luck, Mr. Deamone was kind enough to seat him next to Louis.

He greeted Harry with a small smile and carried on his quiet conversation with Holly about her grandchildren. So far she has talked about her whole family, quite a talkative lady she was, but Louis noticed the absence of a husband in her dialogue.

Holly sighed in disappointment after she had finished talking about her youngest granddaughter, little Rosie, and toyed with the food on her plate. Harry took this an opportunity to turn to Louis. "Morning," he greeted. "You must be Louis. My name is Harry. Harry Styles."

"Pleasure, Harry." Louis smiled. "I think we are housed in neighboring rooms, am I correct? Have you had a good sleep? You look rather tired."

"Seems like no one here did," Harry pointed out.

"Yeah, me neither. I cannot even touch my food. This whole place just makes me sick."

Harry noticed that he had not even bothered to grab a plate, he was only nursing a half-drunk glass of orange juice. "Here," he said, reaching over to his plate and handing Louis a toast in a napkin. "You should eat something, breakfast is the most important meal of the day."

Before he could even thank the stranger, the screen turned on once again. The guests were greeted by the familiar hooded figure.

"Thatcher!" the figure exclaimed with a distorted voice, raising their black leather glove-covered hands. "Congratulations on your victory, last night. You might have noticed the party had I left for you earlier. I want, no I _need_ you to put it on, what's the fun in being a winner if you don't look like one?" All eyes were glued to Thatcher, and he shakily lifted the hat over his head and adjusted the strings below his chin. He held in his breath and looked back at the screen, even he was scared of what was about to happen.

"Good, _good_. Now, if you look closely I believe you will also notice that Thatcher is the only one who does not have an empty glass of water on his seat. You may be wondering, _why is that?_ Well, your questions are about to be answered."

Weatherford's face was drained of blood as he came to realization. How did he not notice the glasses? He looked around at everyone's panicked faces. Mark looked sick to his stomach, Holly actually said the words "I am going to be sick", Louis and Poppy started tearing up and Harry's chest was going up and down at a dangerous pace. The only ones that looked rather okay with the situation were Thatcher and Stacy. Thatcher looked relieved, and Stacy had an emotionless expression painted on her face, much like the rest of the time.

Jennings entered the room carrying a crystal jar full of water. He began pouring the liquid into the glasses, for all except for Thatcher.

"No." Holly sobbed. "I am _not_ drinking that." Her elderly voice shaking with fear could break anyone's heart, but no one was in the position of feeling pity for another person when their own lives were on the line, a line as thin as a single strand of hair.

"Too bad," the figure pouted on the screen, "If you do not drink from that glass, or disobey any of my commands, none of you will _ever_ leave this mansion. As simple as that. Now have fun, I'll see you again in a few once everyone has had a taste of the deliciously looking fresh water. Auf Wiedersehen." And the screen turned black.

Louis had tears running down his face, Stacy had started to tear up already and Harry was as pale as ever.

"I-I'm not... doing this," Poppy sobbed. "I refu-"

"Poppy, you have to." Weatherford stated, hardening his appearance. "We all have to. If we don't, we all die, remember? Maybe he is just trying to scare us."

"What if he isn't?" Louis snapped.

" _I don't know_ , okay? All I know is that if we don't do this, it _will_ get worse. So whatever happens, we stick together. We help the one who needs our help, we don't leave anyone to their own fate. We are in this together. If there is anyone religious here, I suggest you say a prayer, and then we drink."

Holly led on the catholic prayer and Thatcher quietly mumbled a Jewish prayer to himself. Once they were done, they all grabbed their glasses in unison and took a sip. Most of them tried to touch the container as little as they could with their lips, in a desperate attempt to keep the poison, if there was any, from getting to their system, despite the fact thet deep down they knew it would be of no use.

At first, nothing happened. They all put their glasses down on the mahogany table and looked around the table, waiting for the rest to fall face first, lifeless. But when it did, it all happened so fast that nobody could process it properly.

A mild cough burst through the air, breaking the silence. That cough turned into a sickening choke, a gasp desperate for life. Stacy clutched her throat as her face turned paler than ever before and dark purple veins started to become visible on her skin. Everyone around her got up abruptly from their seat, screams of horror and desperation pierced the ears of the newcomers when they saw the blood pouring from the Congresswoman's mouth, nose and ears. And just like that, she laid lifeless on the dining table.

Holly was holding Poppy as they uncontrollably cried and screamed in a corner, as the men were deciding who was going to check if Stacy was still alive or dead. Mark walked toward the body, hesitantly pressing two fingers to the jugular to confirm the passing. "Time of death, 06:27." he replied out of habit once he failed to find a pulse.

"Nobody touch the body." Weatherford warned. He sighed and ran a hand through his messy hair, contemplating what to do next. All the doors were locked, and he had six other horrified people trapped with him in a room where a corpse laid.

Harry took out a flip phone he had managed to sneak in from his pocket and held it up in the air, trying to get some signal in an attempt to contact the police, or anyone for that matter. His heart by ramming in his chest. "It's completely dead."

"All the telephones in this house are disconnected as well, I've already tried that, Styles. It's no use. Somebody cut the wires and we are in the middle of freaking nowhere." Mark scoffed.

Harry groaned and covered his hands, crouching down on the floor facing away from Stacy. No one dared to look at her. Thatcher started to anxiously pace around the room with his ridiculous party hat still on. He took it off and threw it to the ground.

The screen turned on again and the same figure reappeared. Louis noticed the party hat sitting on the floor and grabbed it, furiously throwing the accessory to the figure on the screen.

Mr. Deamone shook his head slowly, making a _tsk_ sound with their mouth. "You lot have made such a mess. And it's your responsibility to clean that mess up. In a cupboard behind you, you'll find three pairs of gloves and three shovels, it's up to you to decide who will be getting rid of her. Behind the manor, at the edge of the forest, there is a grave waiting for her. See, I even took care of that for you. You can thank me later. But for now, I only need you to so this simple task. And remember, every good killer keeps a souvenir." And just like that, the screen went dark again.

Weatherford banged his fist on the table and groaned. After a few seconds, he composed himself again and lifted his head. "Okay, this is what we are going to do. Harry and Mark, you are going with me to bury her. Get the gloves and shovels while I take off her necklace."

"Why would you do that? Just leave her alone." Louis choked, holding back a sob.

"He told us we need to keep a souvenir, Louis. We all have already seen what this person is capable of. It would be straight up stupid if we do not do what they command." Weatherford sighed and carefully removed Stacy's pearl necklace that hung loosely around her neck.

"Weatherford." Mark called.

"There is something else in here." Harry said, lifting a headstone with his glove-covered hands. Engraved in it where Stacy's full name, date of birth and date of death, and a quote.

**_May her betrayal be foreved remembered, as the living do not forget._ **

Weatherford, Mark, and Harry carried the body to the back of the manor where indeed, a grave was waiting for them. They carefully placed the body inside and began shoveling dirt to cover the corpse. Harry then placed the gravestone in its place, wondering if there would be any more graves waiting for them in the near future, and worrying if one of them would be his, who else's body would he have to bury the next time, or if the same fate awaited for the pretty blue-eyed journalist waiting for them inside the manor.


End file.
